142 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



more were veering, and within a short time the 

 whole herd, bearing off from the cliffs, was pound- 

 ing over the open plains. 



Whose race was it? It was Peroxide Jim's, 

 according to Wade, for not by word or by touch 

 of hand or knee had the horse been directed in 

 the run. From the flash of the lightning the horse 

 had taken the bit, had covered an indescribably 

 perilous path at top speed, had outrun the herd 

 and turned it from the edge of the rim rock, with- 

 out a false step or a tremor of fear. 



Bred on the desert, broken at the round-up, 

 trained to think steer as his rider thinks it, the 

 horse knew as swiftly, as clearly as his rider, the 

 work before him. And he knew how to do it, or 

 could see in the dark how to do it, far better than 

 his rider. But that he kept himself from fright, 

 that none of the wild herd-madness passed into 

 him, is a thing for great wonder. He was as thirsty 

 as any of the herd ; he knew his own peril, per- 

 haps, as none of the herd had ever known any- 

 thing; and yet, such coolness, courage, wisdom, 

 and power! 



Or was it only training ? More intimate asso- 

 ciation with the man on his back, and so, a further 



